


Bang, Bang

by LostCybertronian



Category: markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, I don't think Darkiplier is really the affectionate type, M/M, Markiplier - Freeform, Markiplier TV, Mental Breakdown, Who Killed Markiplier - Freeform, this is purely to ease my own feels over WKM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:53:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCybertronian/pseuds/LostCybertronian
Summary: October 13th: the day Mark took everything from them. It's been a long time, but they're still struggling to live with the aftermath of what happened.





	Bang, Bang

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still in the obsession hole with Who Killed Markiplier, tbh.  
> I can't wait till he comes back on Monday.  
> Comments would be appreciated!

That day had been a rough day.  
His shell creaked and fractured, unable to keep together for more than a few minutes at a time, and the results of that showed: Dark's office was a void of gray and the dull ringing that normally accompanied him had reached fever pitch.   
Lights flickered and burst in showers of sparks wherever he went, incapable of withstanding the force of his aura seeping out in waves, suffocating any and all color.  
Thus, he'd shut himself in his office, treating anyone who dared poke their head in to images of bared teeth and fingers curled into claws. An eldritch horror framed in cyan and fluorescent red.   
He could only hope that the rest of the day would pass quickly and quietly. And then tomorrow he could put it behind him for another year.  
Then: _Bang! Bang!_  
The sharp _crack_ of gunshots jolted Dark from his chair.  
Seething, he left his office and stormed down the hall, following the noise as more gunshots and a flurry of shouts rang out.  
He was not surprised to find himself at the door to the recording studio, the "recording" sign above the door lit up green.  
Still, Dark wasted no time in barging in.  
 _Bang!_ a bullet plunged into the wall, mere inches from Dark's head.  
"Damien!" Wilford squawked, hurrying to his side.  
At the sound of that _name_ \- long gone, but not forgotten- Dark's shell splintered, flooding the room with black and blue and red and _rage._  
Then, as soon as it started, it stopped.   
Dark folded his hands behind him, the perfect picture of patience, surveying the room and taking in the corpses of a man and a woman (contestants of another one of Wilford's game shows?) sprawled on the floor, the Jim Twins huddling by the stage, Bim hovering protectively over them. Wilford, who was blood-spattered and flustered, and the last contestant standing, some poor schmuck who got to stare down the barrel of Wilford's gun.  
"What seems to be the problem here?" When at last Dark spoke, his voice was quiet. He appeared, for all intents and purposes, calm.  
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bim shuffle the Jim Twins back a few steps. He clearly knew better.  
Wilford, however, was undaunted.  
"Damien!" He cried, jabbing his gun in the contestant's direction. "You must tell this scoundrel off. I am a respected Colonel in the armed forces and I am sure as hell no murderer!"  
It took all Dark's willpower to remain in one piece.  
"What is your name?" The entity shot an icy glare at the surviving contestant, a scruffy man who was pressed against the wall. As Dark studied him, he could've sworn he looked like-  
"Abe." The man answered shakily, "my name is Abe. Pl-please don't kill me-"  
 _Bang!_ Wilford shot at him, the bullet missing by no more than a centimeter. The man- _Abe_ \- froze, cringed, frightened tears spilling down his cheeks.  
"I'm not a fucking murderer!" The pink ego snarled.  
Dark gritted his teeth, rolled his head side to side, cracking his neck. This was going downhill quickly. He had to get Wilford out of there.   
He placed a hand on Wilford's shoulder, reached for the gun. "Wil-"  
"Don't _Will_ me, Damien!" Wilford swiveled to face him, dark eyes alight with desperation, with madness.   
Above them, the studio lights began to flicker.  
"Will . . ." Dark warned, but it was too late.  
One by one, the lights exploded in cascades of pink sparks, sending shards of glass flying and plunging the studio into darkness.  
Behind him, someone- one of the Twins? Bim?- yelped, but other than that, the room was silent.  
"I'm not a _murderer._ " Wilford choked out finally. He sounded like he was crying. "They . . .they were _accidents. Jokes."_  
Then he spun on his heel and fled.   
Dark barely had time to bark, "Bim, clean this up!" before he was gone too.   
A group of people were clustered outside the door, and they stared at Wilford as he burst out of the studio.  
Wilford (William? Colonel? What was his name? _Which name was he?_ ) immediately raised his gun. He only had one bullet left, but he would make it count.  
"Wilford." A man he didn't recognize, dressed in a long white coat and scrubs, a circular mirror fastened to his forehead, stepped forward, hands raised as if to appear non-threatening. "Put the gun down, okay? I'll take you to the clinic and get you cleaned up-"  
"That's not my name!" Wilford hissed, pushing past him, the others who had gathered, making for his room. "Get away!"  
He heard someone- Damien?- calling out his name, but he paid no heed, choosing instead to seek solace from the curious, prying eyes, from the figures of blue and red flickering at the edges of his vision.  
A woman, bathed in red, sneering at him. A man, dressed in blue, lying prone against the wall, his face one of pure agony.  
"I'm sorry!" Wilford cried, fat tears welling up, spilling over. "I'm sorry!"  
He made it to his room, throwing open the door, slamming and locking it behind him.  
And there he stayed: huddled in the furthest corner of his bright pink-covered room, back firmly against the wall and gun cradled against his chest as if he could use it to fend off the memories overloading his brain.  
It couldn't have been long before Dark came for him, high-pitched ringing and black-gray tinges of aura alerting Wilford to the man's presence before Dark was even there, stepping _through_ the door as if it were nothing.  
"I didn't kill you, Damien." Wilford whispered, visibly relieved. The knot in his chest loosened a tiny bit.  
There was a strange expression on Dark's face as he shook his head. He wandered carefully closer, cracking his neck as he did so, straining to keep his shell in one piece.  
Recognition and a mix of guilt and sadness flickered through Wilford's eyes.  
"Why do you do that?" He asked quietly, "you never used to do that, Damien."  
Images flashed through Dark's mind. A gunshot. Falling. The sickening _crack_ of fragile bones breaking as his borrowed body hit a cold, unforgiving floor.  
He chose not to respond. Instead, he held out his hand.  
"Give me the gun," he said.  
After a moment of hesitation, Wilford did, handing over his weapon as if it physically pained him to do so.  
Dark tucked it inside his suit jacket pocket and settled heavily next to him. Then, giving a soft sigh, his hand found it's way to Wilford's, frigid fingers clasping Wilford's warm ones gently.  
His shell was split, afterimages of him breaking away, wreathed in red and blue, visions of rage and hatred and guilt.  
But Dark said nothing, and the pair sat in silence.  
After a while, Wilford spoke.  
"My name . . . isn't William. And yours isn't Damien." He chuckled softly. "Don't know why I thought it was."  
Dark shrugged, running his thumb over Wilford's hand. He tilted his head from side to side, feeling the bones shift and realign, feeling his shell snap back into place as well. "I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you."  
"But," he added, leaning over to kiss Wilford's sweaty, blood-spattered temple. "Wilford is a perfectly fine name."  
Wilford's face brightened and he hopped to his feet, tugging Dark up with him. "Damn right it is! Now, we have no time to waste. There are game shows to run and things to do!"  
All traces of his breakdown forgotten, Wilford yanked Dark along as he practically skipped from his room, happy as a child on Christmas morning.  
Dark allowed it, grateful that the broken, guilt-racked William was gone, replaced by lighthearted, bubbly Wilford Warfstache once more.  
It happened this way every year on October thirteenth, every anniversary of the day that Mark took everything from them.  
Dark shook his head, banishing the thought. Now was not the time to think about that. He had to focus on keeping Wilford safe from himself.  
So he smiled and nodded as the pink ego babbled about upcoming interviews and ideas for new episodes of Markiplier TV as they walked hand-in-hand down the hallway and thought that maybe there was a chance the day could be salvaged after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really like the ending much. But I suck at endings anyway.


End file.
